


I'd Still be Where I Started (Same as When I Started)

by RDcantRead



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Body Image, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Roger Taylor (Queen), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Insecure Roger Taylor (Queen), Malnutrition, Sad Roger Taylor (Queen), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Stream of Consciousness, Tragedy, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21663553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RDcantRead/pseuds/RDcantRead
Summary: It was never meant to go this far.It was just a little diet. Just, trying to be healthier, lose a little weight.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Comments: 15
Kudos: 101





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Keep Yourself Alive" by Queen 
> 
> Please heed the tags, this contains graphic descriptions of calorie counting and severe weight loss. 
> 
> If you think you might get triggered by any of the topics described/discussed please, please, please do not read.

Roger wasn't really sure what had gotten into him. It wasn't really something that happened in one day, it just sort of snuck up on him. 

He was just looking to be healthier, lose a bit of weight. It wasn't meant to go as far as it did, it was _never_ meant to continue for as long as it did.

And it wasn't that Roger was fat. It wasn't that Roger thought he wasn't attractive, he was, and he knew it. It was just that sometimes he hates the little tummy, hates seeing all his skinny bandmates, hates that he doesn't have that body type.

It was just losing a bit of weight, just getting rid of the unnecessary extra. And, yeah, maybe it was a bit unhealthy, but Roger studied biology, he knew how much was too much, he knew how far was too far. 

It would be fine. Roger would have the beautiful, delicate, svelte figure he dreamed of, and then it would stop. He would just stay at that weight, no need to change that.

But then maybe Roger was never meant to be beautiful and dainty. Because no matter how many meals Roger skipped, he just fell back on old habits, eating the same junk, sometimes more than he would usually eat, and not losing any weight. 

(Sometimes it felt like he was gaining more weight. (And wasn't his waistband digging into his stomach?))

Roger couldn't really help the awful, disgusting, negative thoughts plaguing his mind, it just happened, really. Some days, he went hours without even thinking about food. Other days, he gets interrupted constantly by his grumbling stomach as he denies it a basic necessity.

So he makes it different. He stops his ridiculous idea of just not eating, which was dumb and stupid and Roger really is an idiot if he thought that would work. Besides, it's not like Roger wanted to _die_ by depriving his body of calories, it's just that he wanted to force it to use up its fat reserves, that's all.

There's really nothing wrong with that. And obesity is a serious health issue, and there's no way losing a bit of weight couldn't be beneficial. (And a little tummy is healthy, so don't worry, his subconscious provides. He silences it quickly, he doesn't need the temptation.)

So he stops eating breakfast. It's just one meal, and how many fewer calories is that? It's not like it's unhealthy, and really, just how much does breakfast affect. Not much. 

And it doesn't really _change_ anything. Roger's still the fat fucking freak in too-tight jeans and unbuttoned shirts, Christ, it's like he wants to be ridiculed. (Maybe he should just… eat a little less.) 

So he does. He eats a little less. Not a whole lot, but enough that it's finally starting to work. He's found that counting the number of calories every little thing has worked better than just skipping meals. It makes sure that he doesn't just eat more, later on, it makes sure he stays on track. It's logical.

And many people wouldn't see Roger as turning to _numbers_ to lose weight, but it's working, and the weight's dropping off.

Roger knows how much he should be eating (two thousand to three thousand calories per day) which is… a lot. But there's no reason that the number shouldn't be smaller. And he's determined to get that number on the scale to be smaller. (A thousand five hundred should do the trick.)

But it's like his body is protesting him, it's like it doesn't want to listen to him when he tells it to shut up and take what it's given. It just begs for more until it doesn't and Roger thinks he's got peace. But then it stops working again.

It _should be_ working. _Why isn't it working?!_

He's eating the same exact number of calories a day, he has the basic foods memorised in terms of calories by now, (fifty-two per one hundred gram in an apple, three and a half per one hundred gram in black coffee) and he knows that what he's doing works. But he just can't get the initial weight loss back.

And he hates it, he hates the bit of flab sticking out, hates the softness of his cheeks, hates the jiggling of his thighs. He just wants it to stop, he wants to be pretty and thin. 

He hates looking at beautiful, elegant Brian, or stick-thin John, or flamboyant, slender Freddie. He hates that he's not that, that he doesn't fit in in their group of beautiful people. 

He wishes he were that attractive. It's an unfortunate circumstance that he isn't. But he can get there, with a bit of time, and fewer calories stacked onto his plate every day.

He cuts down. 

One thousand five hundred just seems so much, and Roger can see why he's not the image of beauty that his bandmates are. One thousand is much more reasonable. He might actually begin to look sharper, rather than his dumbed-down figure.

(Sometimes, when Roger can't stand the thoughts circling in his head, he sits naked on the bathroom floor, staring at himself in the mirror. It doesn't help him feel better.)

Oftentimes, Roger gets tired. He's just a bit exhausted, it's nothing to worry about until time falls away and he falls flat to the ground. But still, it's alright.

He hates stairs. Stairs are his worst enemy. Long, winding staircases leading up and up and up until Roger's falling down, down, down and then he wakes up lying once more at the bottom of the stairs. He stays downstairs from then on unless he really has to go up, but he tries to avoid that.

It's been a while since Roger's had something substantial to eat. But that's no matter. It's not like substantial means anything anyway. 

The bruises begin appearing, randomly dispersed throughout his body, tattooing his body in shades of black and blue, turning his milky skin into a sickly yellow-green and pressing purple patterns into a pasty plane. 

The ecchymosis covers his body, leaving trails of discolouration in its wake. Roger spends an exorbitant amount of both time and money on make-up to conceal the patches of purpura. (Luckily he's had practice.)

He's always cold, lately. Stuck in a kind of limbo between freezing and below average, and Roger wishes he were closer to the below-average part of the scale, but he's closer to deficient. He's deficient of warmth, the glow of friendship no longer surrounding him, deficient of heat, of companionship, of passion. (He longs to be cold, but the subconscious can't wait to be in the warmth.)

His body has these ugly, whitish-transparent hairs covering it, giving his skin a waxy, feathery look, and a plasticky feel. 

His mind sluggishly jumps from non-sequitur to non-sequitur, no longer bothering to connect its topics. It should bother him, that he can't seem to find a grasp on reality, that he's living in a perpetual state of tiredness where he no longer needs to count calories to know he's under five hundred. 

He's disgustingly proud of that. He's proud of the rail-thin neck, of the collarbone on display, of the hip bones sharp enough to scare off, of the prominent ribs hiding the concave stomach.

Roger often wakes up to find hair on his pillow. Long, dry, brittle, fragile ( _delicate_ ) blond hairs decorating his pillow and falling off his scalp. He hates it. He hates the constant _softness_ of his body, he hates the little hairs covering his skin, the bruises, the coldness, the hair loss. He can't even get an erection anymore. 

He doesn't have the energy to go anywhere, do anything, let alone drumming. And this was meant to be a little diet, and it's already been a few months, and he can't handle more than water anymore. 

He hasn't seen his friends in _weeks_. 

He's dying. 

He's dying he's dying he's dying he's dying he's dying he's dying he's dying he's dying he's dying he's dying he's dying…

He doesn't want to die. 

It was _never_ meant to go this far, and _fuck_ , trust Roger to fuck up his own life so fucking gracefully. 

It's probably a good time to call someone. Anyone. Though maybe it's all in his head, maybe he's still fucking fat and maybe he still needs to get rid of the fat deposits stored all over his body. 

He calls Freddie. It goes to voicemail. He's not really surprised. He closes his eyes, tears he doesn't have stinging at his eyes, but they won't fall, because Roger can't afford to lose more water. 

He loses consciousness. He doesn't think he's going to wake up.


	2. Part 2

“C’mon, darling, wake up for me.” Is the first thing Roger hears when he wakes up. The second thing he hears is the desperate note in Freddie’s voice and all he can think of through the sluggish fog is  _ why. _ Why worry about Roger? He’s doing fine, great even, but all he can think of is that frantic breathing and hitching vocal.

He tries to move, but it,  _ fuck _ , it  _ hurts _ . Like thousands of razor-sharp needles embedding themselves in his skin and pulling right back out, over and over again. The pain makes its way to his stomach, which is cramping tightly and refusing to let go, forcing him to try and curl up in the fetal position and hoping desperately for the nagging ache to let him die in peace. 

Roger’s surprised he isn’t dead if he’s being honest - he can barely remember what happened the day before but he’s hoping Freddie would remind him. Speaking of Freddie, Roger isn’t sure what the hell he’s even doing here, kneeling on the floor with Roger’s head in his lap, begging him to wake up. 

Oh.

Maybe that’s why. Maybe it’s because he was sleeping (he’s not entirely sure he was sleeping now that he thinks about it - the raging headache was a testament to that) on the floor of his living room. Well, it’s not like he sleeps in the bedroom anymore, so maybe he just fell off. (Keep telling yourself that; maybe one day you’ll believe it.)

He makes to lift his arm, but it’s weighed down. It feels like it’s made of lead and he discovers that the rest of his body isn’t much different - almost like it’s trying to make him think that it’s irreparably heavy. (And, oh, does that thought make him panic; a hitching breath, barely noticeable, rushing through his lungs and making his heart hurt.)

Freddie’s stream of pleas reaches his ears once more, he’s finding it harder to concentrate these days, “Please, Roggie, just say something, I love you, please,” the tears in his voice are barely audible and yet Roger can hear them clearly.

And Roger desperately wants to comfort the frantic and anxious note in Freddie's angelic voice but he  _ can't.  _ He can't lift his arm up, can't force his voice to work, can't do  _ anything  _ except lie there.

Oh God, he's going to die here. He's going to die here and Freddie will be there to witness his  _ shame _ . Witness his  _ broken  _ and  _ abominable  _ form as he gets smaller and smaller until all he is is a speck on the universe's tapestry.

When did he get so…  _ poetic _ ?

He hears someone enter, but can't focus enough to notice, can't focus enough to differentiate, can't focus enough to do  _ anything _ , and all he can hear is a rhythm that beats and pounds in his head, breaking up the thoughts rushing sluggishly through his scattered mind. 

He vomits onto the shiny, polished floor of his living room, the vague feeling of his best, closest friend rubbing his back between heaves and  _ oh God,  _ is he  _ crying? _

That's him. That's his voice pathetically  _ sobbing _ ,  _ weeping, wailing _ . Screaming and bawling as he can't make his voice  _ fucking cooperate.  _ There's no one there to see (Freddie is right there. He right there, idiot) his pitiful breakdown (that's not true; he broke down a long, long time ago, he's only just facing the consequences now. (It's been  _ months _ .))

There are people in the room. There are people in the room and he can't  _ handle _ this right now. He can barely handle the presence of his best, closest (most  _ beloved _ ) friend, let alone a group of people attempting to take him away from him and -  _ please, please, no, let me stay, I don't want to go, please, please _ .

And he doesn't want to die. 

But he  _ can't stand  _ the thought of being alive where he has to be so  _ fucking fat _ . Can't stand the thought of being alive where people  _ laugh  _ and  _ jeer _ . Can't stand the thought of being alive where he has to  _ face the consequences _ . (Can't stand the thought of being dead when there's so much to live for.)

Except there wasn't.

Because Roger's life has kind of been  _ consumed _ by the thoughts of food, and calories, and weight, and  _ numbers _ . And he  _ loathes _ the numbers. Hates the numbers so fucking much. Hates the way they make him so irrational ( _ ha _ ) and let him see how fucking high those numbers are when all he wants is to be  _ small _ and  _ perfect _ and  _ prime _ .

Hands are touching him, grabbing him tugging him away from the only security blanket he has. Had. When has he last been a  _ real _ ,  _ true _ friend to Freddie? (It's been  _ months _ .) 

It's been months of torture and strictness and dieting and of not being  _ good _ enough, not being  _ small _ enough, not being  _ thin _ enough. He's never been good enough.

The unknown hands touch, grab,  _ yank  _ him away from Freddie and lift him somewhere where he feels needles  _ stabbing _ through the skin,  _ razor-sharp  _ and so very dangerous when there's so little to cushion. 

And the whole situation fills him with so much  _ anxiety _ . Because he can't  _ focus.  _ He can't tell what the hell is going on, can't tell whether he's up or down or sideways. 

He can't tell and then he falls asleep. 

Everything is overwhelming him, making fragmented thoughts  _ sprint  _ sluggishly through his scattered mind. Make the  _ pain _ everywhere, all over his body, fade away, only to be replaced with the  _ cold _ sensation of  _ fear  _ and  _ panic.  _

Because he  _ doesn't know what's going on.  _ And he  _ can't focus.  _

And then everything disappears.

Nothing goes dark, and nothing happens, he simply stops.

And restarts. Restarts to a  _ darkness  _ that Roger can't comprehend. Restarts to a  _ heaviness  _ that Roger can't handle. Restarts to a needle in his arm and beeping in his ear.

Rhythmic, calm, contained. Whispery. The pulse whispers at the edge of his consciousness,  _ "come home, come back, you're still alive."  _ But Roger's been hallucinating for weeks, and you can never tell if the voices are real.

Besides, he's in too much  _ fluttery, cloudy, unfeeling  _ numbness to be anything other than dead. Life is too cruel to be as comforting as the nothingness is. 

Then the voice registers. It's hoarse, wet with tears and dry from lack of water. Or from speaking for too long. Roger doesn't know how long they've been talking, but he assumes it's been a while - this leads to the inevitable question of  _ how long was he out. _

How long has he been lying here, unconscious, needle in his arm, beeping in his ears? How long has he been lying here, unresponsive, unfocussed, unreal? He doesn't know. He doesn't really  _ want  _ to know. 

Besides, even if someone told him the date or the time, he wouldn't be able to tell them how long he'd been… uh,  _ indisposed _ . (He wouldn't be able to tell them how long he'd been loopy, crazy, irrational, dinky dau, insane, loony, mad, deranged, unhinged, unstable, nuts, round the bend, cuckoo.)

He wouldn't be able to tell them  _ anything _ . Because  _ he doesn't know.  _

He doesn't know what time it is, or what day it is, or his weight (not anymore, who knows how long they've been pumping him full of nutrients and, God, the thought makes him physically  _ ill _ .) 

"Please, darling. Please," the voice breaks through his increasing panic and the pleading not in the voice is overshadowed by the sound of a sob building in their throat. And Roger can't  _ stand  _ the  _ guilt  _ of being the one that caused that feeling; of being the one that  _ hurt them. _

"Freddie," he tries to whisper, but there's a cutting sensation in his throat, dry and sore like welts were growing inside his windpipe. Breathing was laboured; speaking was impossible. 

He  _ needs  _ to get Freddie's attention, has to apologise. Because Roger was  _ stupid.  _ He was  _ stupid _ and  _ dumb  _ and decided that he was going to slowly but surely kill himself. 

Because Roger  _ hates  _ the way he looks,  _ hates _ the imperfections, the fat, the  _ weight _ . Roger hates himself so. Damn. Much. Roger hates everything about himself and trying to fix it just made everything worse until all he could do was cry until his tears ran out and wish that he was dead because his life was a shitshow of Roger being stupidly insecure.

Roger's life was looking into a funhouse mirror that showed you a distorted image and convinced you it was true. Roger's life was people beating him down and saying he deserved it. Roger's life was a cycle of abuse that revolved around him. (But the world doesn't revolve around him, and how could he be so  _ selfish _ .)

He hears Freddie fall silent and he  _ wishes  _ Freddie would just keep talking because then Roger wouldn't have to listen to himself.

He falls asleep once more. This time he knows that he'll wake up, but he doesn't really know if he wants to.

Especially when he knows what's waiting for him at the end of the tunnel. (Brian, Freddie and John. And a  _ serious  _ talk. One that should have taken place  _ weeks  _ ago.)


	3. Part 3

Roger's never been in this sort of situation before. No, really, he hadn't, and it _shows_. It shows in his constant anxiety, his constant need for reassurance, his lonely ramblings anytime someone is there. No one’s ever been seriously worried about him before, and no one has ever cared enough about him _to_ worry - especially about something as inconsequential as this. (That’s a lie; this is in no way inconsequential and is something he should be very worried about.)

It’s awkward, lying in a hospital bed, iv in his arm, nasal cannula irritating his nostrils and the hospital gown itching at his skin. But that’s not really why it’s awkward in the room if Roger’s being honest (which he makes a habit of not being). It’s awkward because his friends - his _best friends_ \- are standing around his bed like he’s dying and they aren’t really saying anything. (He can practically _hear_ the disappointment permeating the air, he’s _never_ been good enough.)

They’re not _saying_ anything and all Roger can think of is the ruthless silence, the warranted hatred filling the spaces where they don’t speak. There’s nothing to dissuade him from the feeling that they despise him. (That’s another lie (three strikes and you’re out); he’s ignoring the red-rimmed eyes, the downturned faces, the hitching breaths and stuttering hands.)

And Roger never meant for this to happen. He never meant to fall so far he couldn’t get back up and he never meant to end up like this. Broken, lonely and miserable. He started dissatisfied and ended up destroyed. 

It was losing a bit of weight and in the process losing humanity and friendships and _love_. 

The tunnel hasn’t reached its end and he’s still got a long ways to go. (The train isn’t stopping here, there’s no fast-track for wrecks and fuck-ups.)

(There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with him and won’t anyone _help_ him, please, please, please, please, please. He just wants it all to _stop_.)

He just wants someone to _say something_ , anything really, just so Roger doesn’t have to think anymore because this is ruining him, and he wants to be fixed so badly, but how can you fix something that’s crumbled to dust? It feels like a long time, and maybe it is, and Roger’s starting to think that it isn’t that they aren’t saying anything, it’s that he’s not paying attention. (Just like always; nothing’s changed.)

As sounds begin to filter back into focus, Roger can make out the sound of Brian speaking - or at least he thinks it’s Brian, things are still majorly fucked up in his head - and he tries, he swears he tries, to listen to what he’s saying but he just _can’t._ It’s like the drugs they have him on are fucking with his mind, but he thinks he can make out something like “can you hear me?” and that’s a start, isn’t it?

He either forgets what happens after that or he passes out, but it’s not that concerning, it’s been happening for months. The next time he’s completely aware it’s bright and he’s still uncomfortable and Brian, Freddie and John are still there and it seems like nothing’s changed except they’re not standing over him. 

The problem is that he doesn’t know why they are still there. If they hated him (and they do, no doubt about it) why would they stay? Why wouldn’t they go home and leave him to rot for self-destructing so spectacularly? He did this to himself; he destroyed his own life, why would they want any part in it now that they know?

Because apparently, it’s not enough to just hate him, they need to taunt him, need to see his humiliation as he gets his just deserts. And he gets it. (He gets it because Roger hates himself and all he stands for, all that he’s done is rotten and destructive, and Roger wants to see himself burn in hell too.)

“Roger?” he starts violently. He’s always losing focus, always thinking only of himself, always ignoring all that others do for him. He’s always _like this_ , and _why_ would _anyone_ want to spend any amount of time in his company? It doesn’t make any _sen-_

“Roger? Can you hear me?” The words grate against his thoughts, his brain processing the syllables involuntarily, registering the weak tone, the shaky delivery and the hesitance ingrained in the voice. His mind stutters. 

He clears his throat, feeling the rough texture at the back of his throat, “Yeah,” he attempts to speak, but it’s weak, rough and painful, and isn’t that just a metaphor for his life? 

“Oh God, sorry, here,” He focuses his vision on the person there but they took out his contacts and he’s practically blind, and his self-starvation didn’t make it any better. He reaches out a shaky hand anyway and it feels so heavy why does it feel heavy? Weren’t the drugs meant to make him feel light and fluffy? Oh, fuck why is this happening to him? _Why is it heavy?_

His vision is blurring more, and are those _tears_? Is he _crying_? Why is he crying? What’s _wrong_ with him? But he feels heavy and weighed down and what are they pumping into him? Why is this happening? He was feeling better, he wasn’t focussing on it.

(Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, ignore it - _why is it not working_?)

He can’t ignore it when it’s everywhere. Everything reminds him of how big and fat and ugly and why can’t he be like the others? Why can’t he be skinny and pretty like Brian or John or Freddie? Why is he the way he is? 

Why is it so much work when it should be easy? (It’s been _months_ and nothing’s changed.) 

And he never wanted to die, but he never exactly asked to be born, and wouldn’t that be better for everyone if they weren’t exposed to his disgusting self? 

He just wants to be _small_ and _perfect_ and _prime_. Is that too much to ask for? Is it too much to ask for him to be as _thin_ and _good_ as his friends? 

“Roggie?” it’s like a cut through the fog clouding his mind, deep and heavy and intrusive. He never wanted to die but everything he does leads to that outcome. “C’mon darling, come back to me,” it’s like a blade digging deeper and deeper when all he wants to stay in is in the comforting darkness he’s spent months cloaked in. 

(Are they intrusive thoughts when he welcomes their presence?)

“Snap out of it,” he wants to stay he can’t leave because if he leaves people will lie to him and all he wants is to stay true to himself (Another lie (Out); he was happier before this mess began.) “Roger? Please, I’m scared,”

(“I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.” “I’m scared.”)

“I’m scared too.” A whisper, nearly silent, but it breaks the hold of comforting darkness around his mind and he can see the blurry outlines of his friends but it’s not terrifying and anxiety-inducing this time. It feels like home as he falls into their arms and cries properly for the first time in _months_. 

It feels like coming home after years apart. He can’t trust himself but he can trust them.

“It’s gonna be hard Roger, and we still need to talk.” He feels himself nodding as John speaks, “But, you have to know that we love you, and nothing’s ever going to change that.”


End file.
